Keeping Vigil
by Gater101
Summary: Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.
1. Hesitantly Guilty

Title: Keeping Vigil [1/5]  
Summary: Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.  
Characters: Wilson, Cuddy, House & some others.  
Pairing: House-Cuddy  
Rating: K+

_1. Hesitantly Guilty_

The drive had been long and tedious, the traffic slow moving through the city streets and even slower in the freeway. The late fall heat had matted his hair to his head and as he scrubbed a hand through it, he knew he really should have had a shower before he'd jumped in the car at her call. His shirt was still damp, even with the air-conditioned car and the fall of night. He knows the scent of sweat lingers for long moments in the air as he passes through it.

The hospital is bright and open but Wilson knows it is merely a ploy. The design, the openness, the brightness – all a cover for what really goes on behind the doors and curtains and smiling faces of over worked nurses. When he breathes in, the stench of the hospital is familiar; they are all the same – the same sterile scent of death and illness and pain.

He concentrates on these things because he can't bring himself to think of anything else – of the reason he's here. He and House may not have been on the best of terms lately – what with their argument over the pain meds House had been taking – but the call, the desperation in Stacy's voice to just have _someone _there who wasn't Cuddy, who wouldn't try to objectify what was going on, to make this real for him.

Wilson had not hesitated. He'd kissed goodbye to his wife and jumped in the car and sped to the end of the street before he'd turned into the sluggish traffic. During the three hour drive to the hospital, he thought about Stacy's words. Cuddy, Wilson could vaguely remember, was a ghost from House's past – a woman his friend occasionally spoke about when recalling his time at UMich but who had remained anonymous for years and years, her name rarely spoken. Wilson had thought in those first few years of knowing House that Cuddy was someone but then he'd met Stacy and he'd seemed to forget all about Cuddy and the way she used to nitpick in his organic chem. class.

The nurses directed him along hallways, through doors and for a moment he thought he'd gotten the wrong hospital. Then the nurse had pointed across the hall to a private room, her eyes downcast, and Wilson had stalled. He never stalled – not when it came to House.

When he pushes the door open, he hesitates, wondering briefly if he's gotten the wrong room. The lights are out and he takes a step back, glancing from side to side but there is no other room that the nurse could have meant. The sound of heavy breathing meets Wilson's ear as he slips into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. His footfalls are loud on the tiles floor but the two occupants are not roused and Wilson frowns.

Stacy had told him House hadn't slept in days and when he did, the pain woke him and he screamed – or she woke him by sighing, or shuffling, or breathing. From what Wilson can see, House has exhausted himself – the pain eating away at his energy.

He moves to the other occupant of the room and lays his hand gently on her shoulder, shaking her shoulder. She makes a noise, a protest he thinks and Wilson smiles. He finds the lamp on the bedside and twists the switch, lighting the room with a dull glow.

When he turns back, he starts and stumbles against the table, knocking over a few bottles and pens. House doesn't rouse but his roommate does and the woman who is clearly not Stacy blinks her eyes blearily in the light. Wilson stares at her for a moment, incredulous, wondering who the hell she is.

"Who the hell are you?"

Wilson is surprised by the question and he opens his mouth a few times but no words come out. Instead he turns to House, grey and haggard and so obviously not in pain and he feels a pinch in his heart at the sight. He feels guilt swim already and he knows it will only get worse, will only intensify when House wakes up and finds he can't walk. He knows it will encompass him as House endures hour after hour of agonising physical therapy.

All because he hadn't believed his friend, all because he had told him to work it off.

He closes his eyes and grimaces, pinching the bridge of his nose wishing to stem to flow for at least a little while longer.

"Where's Stacy?" He asks quietly, his hands falling to his side.

The woman across from him stares at him, her curly hair a messy halo of wild curls, her blue eyes almost transparent in the strange light. She purses her lips, cocks her hip but her hand, Wilson notes, doesn't move from House's tight grip.

"She's not here."

Wilson narrows his eyes at the woman.

"I can see that," he replies bitterly, his eyes focussing obviously on her grip of his friend's hand. "Where is she?"

Wilson frowns when the woman shrugs, her eyes flicking to the doorway.

"She left this afternoon – still hasn't come back." She looks back to Wilson and he's startled by the pain he sees there. He feels something click and his eyes widen momentarily before he stores the information away. "You never did tell me who you are," she says accusingly and Wilson belatedly thrusts his hand out.

"I'm Wilson. James Wilson – House's..."

The woman nods and quickly shakes his hands.

"I know who you are." She looks back to House and Wilson can't help but think 'I know who you are, too'. The thought never passes his lips because he doesn't – not really. "I'm Lisa Cuddy, Greg's doctor."

House, Wilson notes, never lets anyone – except Stacy - call him Greg.

--


	2. Solitary Penance

Title: Keeping Vigil [1/5]  
Summary: Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.  
Characters: Wilson, Cuddy, House & some others.  
Pairing: House-Cuddy  
Rating: K+

_2. Solitary Penance_

Despite his anger Wilson finds himself at House's door, knocking quietly. A part of him half hopes the sound is too quiet for his fucked-up friend to hear, while the other part (the the bigger part of him, the part that _actually cares_) hopes he doesn't have to use his key because he's scared that if he does, he'll find a scene much worse than the night before.

As he'd driven home, half-crazy with anger, half so sorely disappointed Wilson had started to feel something else; something that had become quite common when he'd been dealing with House over the past few years. The guilt had wormed it's way in, coiling in his gut and despite his insurmountable rage he'd contemplated calling the only person he could think who could have dealt with House's mess. He'd dialled her number once, twice, three times before deleting the digits and calling the _other _person who could deal with House's mess. The _other _person – aside from Wilson – who had been dealing with House's trail of destruction for almost a decade.

Cuddy, Wilson had been surprised to hear, hadn't been entirely surprised. Because according to her, House's attempt at suicide (if it could be called that) was long overdue. As she had reasoned, her own anger beginning to seep into her voice, his idiocy had been spiralling towards this since Stacy had left almost a year ago. Stubbornly – rightly – she'd refused to check on him and Wilson hadn't been able to turn his own car around and go back.

Until an hour before, when he'd reversed out of the car park and sat on House's street for thirty minutes before deciding that even if House was an ass, Wilson could still do the right thing. All he needed was to see that his friend wasn't dead – maybe toss a few choice swear words at him as well – and then he'd leave, his guilt sufficed enough to let him enjoy what was left of his pretty crappy Christmas day.

The door in front of him didn't budge and when Wilson pressed his ear against the wood, the silence sent cold shivers down his spine. His forehead connects with the solid wood, an all too familiar coil of tightness in his gut. He remembered the last time he felt like this; when Stacy had called, her voice quivering as she told him the doctors were removing part of House's leg. The coil had only tightened as he'd driven the three hour drive to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey and as Wilson reaches for the key in his jacket pocket, he feels that same tightening.

Sliding his key into the lock, hesitating only once as his hand shakes, Wilson realises he'd holding his breath. He's not sure if he wants to let it out; isn't sure that he wants to acknowledge what he more than likely will find on the other side of the door. Because as much of an ass as House was, he is Wilson's best friend.

Inside, the apartment is quiet and the absence of House's prone body on the floor does little to abate his fear. The lights are out, the only lamination the amber glow streaming in from the perpetually unclosed curtains. Carefully, Wilson manoeuvres around scattered pieces of furniture and piles of books, dreading the moment when he steps on House's cold, dead fingers. Instead, he makes it down the hall and into the bathroom without incident and when he gets there, his fear only heightens.

The silence is eerie, the amber glow dimming as he makes his way further away from the source. He closes his eyes at the doorway of the bathroom, double checking the bath tub just in case. In the bedroom, he hesitates. He's stumbled upon a scene like this before; a different setting but the same actors set up on the same stage. Despite the double bed, Cuddy is curled up asleep on House's Eames chair, one hand propping her head up, the other grasping the covers at the edge of the bed.

Wilson doesn't smile; he's not sure her presence is something to be smiled at. Instead, he glances to the sleeping House, the pillows pressed up against his face as he lies face down, spread eagled and moves to stand behind Cuddy. Gently, he nudges her shoulder, whispering her name into the cool air of the bedroom. She snuffles but doesn't rouse and Wilson presses firmer against her shoulder. Blearily she looks up at him, the confusion evident until she blinks and looks back to House.

Wilson motions with his head, noting how she hesitates before she reaches her hand up to House's neck, her fingers checking for a fever or pulse – Wilson can't be sure. When she stands and follows him, Wilson walks to the kitchen.

"I thought you weren't going to come?" He asks quickly, not sure where his annoyance at her presence is coming from. He can see her frown, watches as her lips tighten at his tone and he lifts a hand up in apology. They stand quietly, somewhat awkward and Wilson isn't sure if she's embarrassed but when he tries to catch her eye, she studiously avoids his eyes and shuffles around the kitchen. He watches her for a few moments and she touches almost new pots, fingers days old take out trays, litter covered surfaces that gleam when the light hits them and he wonders, not for the first time, how well she knows House's residence. "Are you all right?" He asks instead, the part of him that's _her _friend taking over.

She turns to him and nods, her grey eyes almost vacant as she stares at her fingers.

"He went to see Tritter this morning."

Wilson is surprised by this.

"That's good, right?" He asks, raising his eyebrow again as she potters about, ghosting past him as she reaches for two cups in the sink, rinsing them under the water. He shakes his head when he offers tea but she readies two cups anyway and Wilson knows she hasn't heard him. "What did Tritter say?"

She sighs and braces herself against the worktop, her head falling slightly. The light catches her hair and when she turns to him, Wilson's surprised by how _old _she looks in the light. Wilson knows firsthand the effects of House's friendship; he's experienced the black hole quality of House's personality. He hadn't thought he'd survive it for as long as he has and as he looks at Cuddy, he doesn't think she'll survive it much longer either.

"Tritter knows he took the Oxy."

The words are unexpected, brutal and Wilson has to grip onto the worktop behind him as his knees give way. He closes his eyes, his anger at House's complete _idiocy _returning. The weight in his stomach drops to his ankles and he can feel his face prickle as the blood heads south. He knows he doesn't need to voice the question but he does anyway.

"No deal?"

"No deal."

Wilson is surprised by the irritation in her tone, the spiteful inflection and he narrows his eyes at her.

"You're mad at _me _for this?"

Cuddy stares at him, her eyes glassy in the dimness and Wilson can feel indignation rise up from his gut. He watches her watching him for a long moment before she sags slightly and covers her face with her hands.

"I'm mad at the situation. I'm mad at him for being such a stubborn jerk, I'm mad at you for thinking House would take the deal, I'm mad at him for stealing the meds but I'm mad at myself for not believing how much pain he's in. I'm mad at myself for thinking that we can control House, I'm mad at you for making me think I could control House or his pain or his jerkiness. Because we can't. I'm mad..."

He reaches out as her voice quivers and touches her elbow but she shies away from his touch, her fingers digging into her eyes as she valiantly fights off the tears he's been sure she's been holding in since she arrived.

"Lisa..." He says but nothing else comes. Helpless, he stands vigil behind her as she wipes at her eyes, as she pours some milk into the steaming cups of tea.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this, James," she says quietly, so quietly that Wilson almost misses it.

He slips his arms around her shoulders and takes the spoon from her hand, urging her to turn in his arms. She resists at first but turns quickly, letting him secure her in his embrace. He rubs his hand up and down her back in a move that House would consider condescending but that Cuddy obviously needs. He sighs into her hair as he feels his shirt dampen slightly.

"Why don't you go home?"

She shakes her head and pulls back, swiping at her tears again. Wilson has been privy to Lisa Cuddy's tears only twice (including now) and it's something that he never wishes to experience again. He'd known Cuddy since House's infarction, and he knew she wasn't a crier. Not for little things and not for big things and the sight of the tears still rolling down her cheeks let Wilson know that to her, this is a big fucking deal.

And it is to Wilson as well but he likes to believe that he and House will always be friends, no matter what happens. He likes to believe that he has House figured out. He likes to believe that House can't surprise him anymore, that he'd gotten the diagnostician figured out. And for a while, his self-delusions had worked. But then House did what House does best and totally blew all of his carefully thought out reasons out of the water.

"I want to keep an eye on him. I gave him a sedative to help him sleep."

She turns away from Wilson as she speaks, her fingers fidgeting again on the work surface. He leans back on the worktop, knowing that she needs her space.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

She glances up to him from under her lashes, her shoeless feet rendering her even smaller than normal, her tear stained face betraying her inner turmoil. She's scared, Wilson knows. And he is too. Scared at how far House had pushed them; scared by how far House had gone this time.

"I know."

"You don't owe him anything," he says to her retreating back.

She falters slightly as she walks away from and Wilson knows she's thinking about his leg, of the months of House's angry yelling and bitter words. He'd been there; he'd seen it too. But when Stacy had left, it had been Wilson and Cuddy who had been left to deal with the mess. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes downcast.

"I know."

He watches her retreat to her post but doesn't follow. He stays in the kitchen, looking around at the mess. House still hadn't cleared up since the police search but Wilson doesn't want to even begin trying to put anything back together. He's too tired. Exhausted even and he knows that neither putting House's house back in order nor a few hours sleep will erase that. He stares out of the window, his eyes raking over the city and he doesn't let himself think about any of this. He doesn't think about Tritter, or House's almost death, he doesn't think about guilt or innocence or House in jail. He just watches and listens, the silent blackness comforting him with its emptiness.

When he eventually moves, the tea is cold. He pours it down the sink, watching as the dregs drain away.

In the hall, he checks in on Cuddy. Her eyes are closed but he knows she's not asleep. He steps in, casts a glance at House and covers Cuddy with the blanket that is lying discarded at her feet. Her finger brushes against the back of his hand and when he looks at her, her eyes are still closed but she smiles at him ever so slightly.

"Thank you," she whispers gently when he reaches the doorway.

Wilson doesn't reply as he takes one last look at the two of them and closes the door.

Cuddy may not owe House anything, but she gives him everything anyway.

Wilson doesn't resent that.


	3. Echoing Stillness

**Title: **Echoing Stillness  
**Summary: **Four times Wilson finds Cuddy at House's bedside and one time he finds House at Cuddy's.  
**Characters: **Cuddy, House, Wilson & mentions of Stacy  
**Pairing: **House/Stacy, House-/Cuddy  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Notes: **I lack an ability to write in chronological order, so this is set before the last chapter but post-infarction.  
**Word Count: **2314

3. Echoing Stillness

"Stacy called me."

She sighed quietly into the mug of coffee in her hand as Wilson slipped in the front door using the key that she had almost forgotten she'd given to him. The dim room offered him little light and he stumbled around her furniture with a distinct lack of grace. When she could see his outline from the corner of her eye she turned to him lethargically hoping he would sense her tiredness.

"He's not here."

Wilson balked at that, dropping onto the sofa beside her and she revelled in the little warmth his body gave off. House's pain had induced a fever and she'd had to turn the heating off in her apartment for fear that it would spike again. In the mid-winter chill, coffee was her only salvation.

"You're a terrible liar," Wilson remarked and she breathed out an airy laugh, too tired to actually respond with any witty remark. Silence descended thickly over them and she turned away, sipping on her lukewarm coffee, wincing as it chilled her further. "She thinks I'm sheltering him." She snorted derisively at that, feeling a little guilty at the thoughts that flitted through her mind. "He's good, I'll give him that."

She turned to him then and frowned deeper. Since she had met him only a little over a year ago, they'd become good friends; banding together on their crusade to pull House of the darkness that she had caused. Sometimes she wondered if their efforts were worth it, if he even cared that they were trying. On those dark days, she disappeared to the third floor, watching over the sleeping babies through the glass that separated them from the rest of the world. The NICU nurses had stopped asking after the third or fourth visit, simply smiling at her as they passed by.

"What do you mean?"

Wilson snorted his own version of derision; she knew many underestimated him – saw him as the quiet, caring one of their irregular quartet but she had seen firsthand how manipulative he could be, how bitchy he could be when House was stepping just the other side of out of line.

"For all intents and purposes, he's seeking shelter from the enemy."

She didn't let the pang she felt in her chest show on her face. She sometimes wondered if maybe Wilson forgot that she had known House longer than either he or Stacy. She wondered if she didn't know him _better _and while it was true that he had portrayed her as the enemy – that she _was _– he knew she wouldn't pity him. Not the way Wilson did and certainly not the way Stacy did.

"It's the last place she'd think to look," she replied quietly, flat and she watched as the flicker of amber headlights danced across the gray surface of her wall before fluttering out of existence.

"He shouldn't be here." She turned to him sharply at the hint of accusation in her tone and she felt a bubble of anger float in her chest. "I don't mean- She's worried-" he trailed off, mouth mouthing without sound but she couldn't help the harsh tone of her next words.

"I'm his friend, Wilson, and above that I'm his _doctor." _Wilson started at that, sitting straighter in the chair as she placed her cup on the table. "He's in _pain_. I'm the one he should be coming to."

_She opened the door and he stumbled in, his cane clattering to the floor as he grabbed at his leg, her table grunting under his weight as he leaned against it. _

"_How-?" _

"_Ten," he said through gritted teeth and she nodded quickly, sliding her arm around his waist and half dragged him to the softer respite of her sofa. He collapsed onto it and she looked down to his face twisted in pain, his gritted teeth visible as he groaned in pain, the warm glow of her lamplight a paradox to the pain she saw on his face. "Eleven now," he managed, his blue eyes flashing up to her with a mixture of agony and anger and she nodded, tucking a cushion beneath his knee before fleeing to her bathroom._

_There, she rifled through the box she kept under her bath rub, pulling out the vial she had promised herself she wouldn't use, no matter how much he begged, grabbing a syringe from the first aid kit in the cabinet. She could hear his laboured half breaths as she moved about her bathroom and she bit back the pain she felt, the guilt that slowly rode up her chest and clamped her throat._

_Back in the living room, he'd somehow managed to turn off the light and when she rounded the corner, she saw that he'd simply knocked the small lamp off the table. She didn't feel angry about that, almost glad for the dark. She kneeled beside him and took his arm in her hand, tapping at the juncture of his elbow._

"_What did you do?"_

_He grunted and turned his head to her, his blues flashing in the dark. Light filtered in from the hall and she lifted his arm enough to see the blue hues running down his arm._

"_Went for a walk," he said acidly, his eyes turning from hers when she lifted hers to meet them._

"_House!" She replied indignantly as she drew liquid from the vial, glaring at him intermittently as she did so. "It's snowing!"_

_He sneered over at her, lifting his hand from his thigh long enough to swipe at his sweat covered forehead before his vice grip returned. _

"_How perceptive."_

_She didn't say anything else – knew there was no point, the damage already done – and slid the needle into his arm. He hissed but didn't flinch and she didn't want to think how he'd come to be accustomed with the feeling. She heard his sigh as she pushed down, infusing his blood stream with an opiate she'd promised she'd never administer for him. _

_She withdrew the syringe, trying not to hear the sigh of relief he expelled, and set it on the table behind her. On her haunches, she watched him for a few moments, from his pain furled face to the soaking feet that hung over the edge of her sofa and in the middle the thigh that forced them apart, his grip on it steely and harsh. She looked up to his face then leaned forward, not over-thinking the decision too much, and pushed his hand aside. _

"_What are you doing?" He asked, almost panicked but she didn't look up to his face. His hand battled with hers but she stubbornly pushed them aside, not letting him steal this victory from him. Her hands settled on his thigh and he hissed; she looked up to him then and saw him grit his teeth. He shook his head down at her, closing his eyes. "Not there," he grunted and she moved her hands further apart, leaving the deepest part of the scar. She pressed her fingers to the muscles surrounding the scar slowly, questioningly and when she looked up to him again, the question in her eyes, he nodded grudgingly and sighed. _

_She sat there for countless minutes, letting her fingers work the muscles in his thigh. From the tightness, she guessed he hadn't been keeping up with his physical therapy treatments but she knew better than to comment on it; coming from her, the words would float off his back with no sign she'd spoken. Her calves began to cramp and she slowed her ministrations before stopping completely, sitting back against her table. She stretched her feet, feeling the muscles in her calves protest then sigh at the motion and she closed her eyes. _

"_How-"_

"_Four," he murmured quietly and she smiled despite herself. He didn't turn to her and the smile went, like many between them, unnoticed. _

_He moaned as he shifted and Cuddy stood, hovering over him for a moment before she reached down and touched his shoulder. _

"_Come on," she said quietly, the sound too loud in the tawny post-dusk light and he turned to her, his brow furrowed. "You'll hurt more if you stay here." With difficulty he sat up, wincing again as his leg twinged in pain and she pretended not to notice as he let out a small sound, almost like a whimper. She moved to the hall and picked up his cane, letting the smooth wood slide between her fingers; her unwanted gift to him. She handed it to him and he nodded in thanks, leaning heavily on both it and her silently proffered arm, grunting as he rose. She led him to her bedroom, turning back the sheets as he hovered in the doorway, looking around the opulent space. "You'll need to take your clothes off," she said quietly and turned to him. She caught the flash of humour – rare from him now, non-existent directed at her – and wanted to smile back but the guilt gripped her muscles and she turned away from him._

"_If you wanted me naked in your bed..." He trailed off and she knew he'd intended humour but he sounded more resigned than amused and she turned to him, hands on her hips. _

"_Not naked, just not wearing soaked clothes."_

"_Well unless you have some of clothes before your sex change then it's going to have to be naked," he snarked back as he began singlehandedly undo the belt on his jeans, fumbling over the contraption. _

_She knew her help would not be welcome in this, at least, and she took the opportunity to move the drawers under the high window. Her calves protested as she crouched to the bottom drawer, rifling through it for what she wanted. When she turned back to him, he given up on the belt and had hooked his cane over the handle of the door, freeing his right hand to aide his left in undressing him. He shed his short jacket and shirt, tugging his tee shirt over his head and she had to look away from the sight of him half naked in her bedroom. As he undid his belt, she moved to him, handing him the tee shirt she'd found in the bottom drawer. He looked up at her with raised eyebrows, his usual glare remarkably not present. He looked down to the worn black fabric in his hand, unfurling the Led Zeppelin tee shirt. _

_Their eyes met for a brief moment before he looked away, to the bed, and cleared his throat. She couldn't bring herself to feel any of the things she knew she should, so she slipped into the hall waiting until she heard him shuffling between the sheets. She stuck her head back into the room and avoided the sight of him in her bed._

"_Do you need anything?" She asked quietly but he shook his head. She nodded, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before retracting herself back into the hall. "Cuddy?" He called after her; it had been almost a year since he'd said her name – either of them – that the sound of it coming from him stilled her for a moment. _

"_Yeah?" She said, looking back at him fleetingly. _

_He opened his mouth then closed it, his eyes visibly narrowing even through the dimness. _

"_I can't believe you keep Morphine in your bathroom," he said eventually and she smiled slightly, quirking her eyebrow tiredly. _

"_Obviously you do, or you wouldn't be here."_

_She didn't wait for his response before she slid back out of the door, clicking it shut behind her. _

"They were fighting again," Wilson said on a sigh and Cuddy looked back to him.

"I know," she said and Wilson quirked his eyebrow at her. "He went for a walk."

"But it's snowing!" She levelled him with a stare and he nodded in comprehension a moment later, wincing as his fingers ghosted over his right thigh. She knew what he was thinking; she'd tried to image the pain too but couldn't – wasn't sure she really wanted to, either. Wilson sighed again, dropping his head into his upturned palms. "He has to let her in."

Cuddy felt her eyes narrow for a moment at the statement.

"She has to stop pushing," she stated simply, examining her nails, "or she'll push him away."

She felt Wilson's gaze on the side of her face, studying but she didn't turn to him. She studiously ignored him and the questioning gaze he tried to pin her with. She was almost glad when she heard the rustle and bump of someone moving about down the hall, knowing that House was awake. She looked over to Wilson as he stood, standing with him too.

"You should get some sleep," Wilson commented as he tucked his scarf into his coat, preparing to leave.

She grunted a laugh at that.

"Unless you take him with you, I won't be sleeping tonight." She hadn't meant to sound forlorn and when Wilson's hand gripped her arm in a comforting grasp, she looked away. "You should go see him."

Wilson glanced over her shoulder for a moment before he shook his head, stepping away.

"He came to you for a reason Cuddy," Wilson stated lowly, his eyes not quite meeting hers and she didn't react to the words.

"He hates me, Wilson," she said to his retreating back a moment later.

At the threshold he turned to her, poised to leave. She waited, expectantly, as his eyes took her in standing before him in flannel trousers and a loose pull over but he turned away, faltering. He stopped again, turned back to her once more and smiled sadly to her, shaking his head.

"House doesn't know how to hate you."

He left with a silent click. In the stillness of the hall, Cuddy's heart echoed off the walls.


	4. Unsurprising Repentance

**Title: **Keeping Vigil, part 4  
**Summary: **Four times Wilson has found Cuddy at House's bedside and the one time he finds House at Cuddy's.  
**Characters: **Wilson, House & Cuddy  
**Pairing: **House/Stacy, House/Cuddy  
**Spoilers: **Birthmarks  
**Word Count: **1733

4. Unsurprising Repentance

"_Stacey left."_

_She looks up from her desk, though she's not surprised. Quickly, she glances away. _

"_I'm not surprised." The door clicks shut and she sighs, setting her pen beside the file she's been updating for the past hour. She's not been able to concentrate; not since Stacy had called her from the airport or since House wouldn't answer the phone. She'd been debating whether or not to go over there, knowing that her presence might not be appreciated. "You know?"_

_She nods slightly, not quite ready to give up on the report, or the guise of reading the report. She pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting back the yawn that threatens to spill from her lips._

"_Stacy called me."_

_She doesn't tell him she's tried to call House; he already thinks too much. _

"_House called me." She doesn't flinch as she feels a lance pierce through her. Instead, she taps the pen against the table and purses her lips as she looks up at him. She's tired of her relationship with House; she's tired of caring about him, of caring __**for **__him but she's tried not to care before. The term 'moth to a flame' didn't equate to how fervently House had sought her out, making her care. "He's a mess."_

"_He would be," she says with more confidence than she feels. Her voice doesn't betray her and she's sure the edge of the table hides the shake of her hand, the quivering of her leg. "I told you she should stop pushing." _

_She doesn't mean to be accusatory but they both need someone to blame and she can't blame House or something she blames herself for. Wilson sighs and sits down, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches her, his eyes assessing. _

"_Why do you always defend him?"_

"_Because you don't," she snaps but doesn't regret her tone even as Wilson flinches._

"_Because he's in the wrong," Wilson stresses and she shakes her head._

"_His life will never be the same again. He's not okay, he probably never will be. Stacy didn't realise that. She kept telling House everything would be okay; she kept waiting for this to be over – but it won't be. It won't be over because the muscle is gone, he needs a cane to walk from one end of the room to the other; that won't get any easier for him, no matter how much we wish it would."_

_Wilson doesn't say anything as he stares at her, his eyebrow raised._

"_The pills he's taking-"_

"_He's in __**pain**__, Wilson." She tosses the pen she'd been fiddling with onto the desk and drags a hand through her hair, rubbing away the last of her mascara. "He needs the pills to function."_

"_Did he tell you that?" She knows that tone; she's experienced that tone more than once since that night House had appeared on her doorstep, followed by Wilson some hours later. She doesn't care for that tone either and she glares at him, hoping to convey the anger that has her bristling. Wilson doesn't bend, used to her anger these days but she doesn't relent. "He's devastated."_

_Cuddy laughs – a bitter sound that she is sure will confirm in Wilson's mind all manner of sins but she's in no mood for his Jewish guilt; she gets enough of it from herself without piling his on top of it._

"_He's angry; he would be."_

_Wilson stands, the heavy chair making an unpleasant sound as it scrapes across the carpet. Light from outside the office catches his face and she notes how old he looks; since House's infarction, they've all aged a lifetime – she hates to think of what she will see in the reflection when she gets home. As much as they care for House, as much as they want to try and help him out of this there's only so much they can take and Cuddy's not sure how much longer she can hold on for. He's pushed and pushed for so long that she can't remember what it feels like not to fight him; she can't remember what it feels like not to have to question his reaction to any conversation; can't imagine a time when she'll be able to look at him and not see his hatred for her reflecting in his eyes. _

_In a way, she envies Stacy even as she wants to hate her. Her ability to walk away from House is noble, Cuddy will give her that. But she can't help but hate that now she and Wilson are all that is left; that the buffer between House and Cuddy is gone and now all of his anger can be concentrated on one instead of divided between two. She wishes that Stacy had been stronger – or maybe weaker, weak enough to put up with House, strong enough to stay. She wishes that she was stronger, to follow in Stacy's footsteps; that she'd walked away first because now she can't leave just Wilson because she can see now that House is draining him too. _

"_You know him better than any of us," he states quietly and she looks up at him, almost startled. She sighs and pinches the bridge o his nose. _

"_Wilson..."_

"_No, you do." She concedes because she thinks she does too. She hates that. "He wants me to go over. Maybe you should-"_

"_No," she says quickly with a shake of the head. "I can't deal with him tonight."_

_And she really can't. She wants to go home and crawl into bed and forget for a little while that she's ever known Gregory House. _

"_Neither can I."_

_There's a desperation in his tone that she almost concedes to. _

"_Wilson..."_

"_Lisa, please." He swallows, his hand coming to rest over hers as it idles on the desk. "My marriage is falling apart."_

"_Your marriage already fell apart, __**James**__." _

_He pulls back at that, his features dark and she closes her eyes against it. She wants to apologise; has already too much to repent for but there's an anger there that won't let her. _

"_It's just us now, Cuddy."_

_She nods slowly and watches as he leaves her office, the door closing quietly behind him. _

The drink is spilled across the top of the piano and Wilson hesitates in the doorway. Things between him and House are still tentative at best and he's not sure his presence will be completely welcomed. He'd seen the half empty bottle in House's office and the effect that his dad's death _eventually _took on him and he knows that he can't really leave now. He's here and House never did ask for the key back.

He closes his eyes as he inhales the peaty essence of the Laphroaig; not his usual but still, heady stuff. The corridor is light, compared with the darkness of the apartment and as he steps in and closes the door, he's unprepared for the complete extinction of light. The curtains, perpetually drawn seem lined with black, the room an abyss as he makes his way across it. He stubs his toe on a number of items, some sharp, others heavy and he contemplates flipping the lights; with the volume House had consumed, Wilson is sure his friend is passed out cold in a slumber that little could wake him from.

He checks the couch as he passes, the floor too (just in case) and continued on to the bedroom, kicking items of clothing out of the way as he goes. House had always been untidy and Wilson's stint of lodging with him hadn't changed him at all, seemingly.

At the threshold of the bedroom, amber street light filters in, lighting the room with eerie warmth. The musky scent of House's home is undisturbed and Wilson sighs as he pushes the door open further. He tells himself he's just checking but a part of him is curious too because he's had experience with this kind of thing and rarely has he found her absent.

He's not wrong but he is still surprised. Her petite figure is illuminated in the amber glow, her hair a curly mess over the pillow. He's never found her asleep, nor in his bed so he's more than surprised by this; he's also curious as to just how much has changed since he left because he knows that he never spoke about House but he likes to think Cuddy would have told him if something like _that _had changed. He steps into the room slightly, his eyes adjusting to the dimness and he feels something akin to relief swim through him.

While House is bare-chested, Cuddy's clothes remain intact. What this means in the grand scale of things, he's not sure but he knows, at least, that he's not stumbled upon their post-coital spooning. In fact, the distance between them on the bed is telling, the large gap between them an obvious sign of how little things have changed. He feels almost voyeuristic as he watches them in slumber, searching for a sign, but there's something calming – almost ethereal – in the way that they find one another that tugs at Wilson's heart. When Amber had died, he'd been alone; he'd resented Cuddy or staying with House then but he should have known that decades of habit didn't change just because he wanted them to.

He starts when House shuffles, his hand rising to touch his face before he reaches out and touches Cuddy's hip – a moment so brief that he wonders if it had been intentional or not. But then Cuddy's body shuffles closer to his and the hand that had brushed comes to rest on the dip of her waist and Wilson knows that this is something he shouldn't have seen.

Quietly, he backs out of the room, smiling.

It's not the first time he's stumbled upon a scene like that and he's sure it won't be the last. But now he finds comfort in their malleability, their ever changing but constant presence in each other's lives.

He'd always thought Stacy leaving was the worst thing that could have happened to House; he doesn't want to imagine, now, what it would be like if it had been Cuddy who left instead. He locks the front door and rests his open palm against the wood and sighs; it's a thought that doesn't bear thinking about.


End file.
